SNAFU
by Icarus
Summary: Never cut off a man's escape route... unless you want to see just how hard he can fight.' Dumbledore's forces hit the Death Eater's Ministry of Magic. After a year in prison, Ron and Draco are ready - mostly - and Ron's plan is set into motion.


Prologue from Draco:

__

I suppose it's my turn to narrate, since this is why I'm here: to take care of a traitor to the blood of wizardkind, who betrayed the Malfoy line. Not to mention** me**_. I had the support of the greater families after what he did (mostly tacit, but that's all you need)._

If Dumbledore's resistance benefited from our help, well, lucky them. But don't think for a minute that my leaving the Death Eaters has anything to do with supporting Mudbloods or Dumbledore's pet Muggles. This was a private matter among the pure-blood families, Dumbledore a mere ally of convenience. At least he knows our ways well enough to understand that as the Malfoy heir, I have to take care of Lucius myself. He only asked me to 'be careful' when I left his camp.

There was a tiny _snag in my original plan: I was captured during my first reconnaissance._

But through sheer luck it brought me closer to my target, since the Death Eaters' Ministry of Magic is staffed by 'live-in employees' (i.e. prisoners) and run by, yes, the one and only. Styling himself the "Lord" of Magic now, though it's a title I won't use.

The Arena…I will never forgive Lucius for that. I don't talk about it, ever, not even to Ron.

Yes, I mean Ron Weasley_ -- what's your point? At least he's pure-blood. And not a lot of people would have… never mind. (Ron would say to read Beg Me For It, Sex Drugs And Death Eater Rock and Hey You to explain the details about us -- but I'd prefer you didn't.)_

Ron guessed early on what I planned and convinced me to bide my time until it was strategically worthwhile to Dumbledore. It chafes to wait, but I suppose I owe Ron that much.

I admit, I like the idea of the Death Eaters losing their Minister of Magic right when they need him most.

SNAFU: Situation Normal, All Fucked Up

by Icarus

His pale thighs fell open, and Draco edged a little closer to Ron under the sheets, tilting his chin for another kiss. Ron cupped his shoulders, let his hand run down his back. He'd learned to slow down a bit, though his breath came in harsh pants. He rolled Draco over delicately, until his chest stuck to Draco's back.

"Side to side," he whispered, and Draco nodded, sharp and quick.

All right, maybe someone else had to count quills to slow down. Ron's hand slid down his thighs, one foot hooking Draco's ankle as Ron's leg tucked between his knees. He winced as Draco bit his arm. Fuck, he was gonna feel that at work tomorrow.

"You'd better make that worth my while," he muttered in Draco's ear, and Draco laughed – then squawked as Ron took revenge, grinning.

Percy yawned and stretched, and finally set down the thick tome. He'd read it a hundred times already. As a prisoner he had just the one book, and that only because he was Lucius Malfoy's personal assistant. Lucius would surely give him more, if asked, but Percy felt a bit guilty these days. When he'd joined Ron's proposed rebellion (and what a nervous business that was…) Draco Malfoy had offered to find him whatever contraband he wanted. But there were ethics involved and sadly, it was far easier to get drugs -- and parts for various weapons -- than books in the Death Eaters' Ministry of Magic.

Percy drained his teacup and set it delicately in the sink, and meandered to the bathroom to brush his teeth for bed.

Still, it would be nice to have something better than a broom-repair manual to read.

Draco blinked awake, irritated, though not sure why. He glared at the strip of cold light under the bedroom door and the cooling pillow beside him. The clock read 10:35.

Ron and his late-night snacks. Didn't he know the blankets were too thin for Draco to sleep alone? The sheets rustled as he climbed out of bed. He picked his way through the clothes scattered all over their room.

Ron stood naked in the kitchen, lit by the blue glow of the open refrigerator as he drank milk straight from the carton. Draco wandered in, rubbing his eyes.

"Ugh, don't do that," he whined, "I don't want to drink your backwash."

Ron wiped his mouth. "What the fuck difference does it make?" He offered Draco the milk but he shook his head.

"At least leave some. I'm making scones tomorrow."

"You?" Ron spluttered.

"Spoken like a man who wants to watch me eat them all," Draco scowled as he snatched the milk away. "In front of him."

Ron sealed his lips. It was not an idle threat, and actually Draco's cooking was getting pretty good. Who'd have thought he'd make a decent housewife?

Ron decided not to say that aloud. Ever.

Percy stripped down to a white t-shirt and underwear and fluffed his pillow. As he climbed in under the satin comforter, a gift from Lucius, he reached for a Muggle alarm clock. They didn't work as well as waking charms, but when one was not allowed magic, one made do. A year after his capture he was certainly used to it.

He wound it, set it down with a _clunk_, then reached for the other one and set it for ten minutes later.

Percy took no chances.

Lucius had been so edgy lately. The tension in their posh office was enough to make his teeth crack. Percy tucked the blanket over his shoulder with a grunt. They didn't get much news in the Ministry, only rumours, but Percy suspected the Death Eaters' war with Dumbledore was not going well. Crackdowns within the prison were increasing.

Ron had best not try anything stupid this week. Percy set his glasses down in front of the clock dial. It read 10:45.

Ron checked their clock. 11:08.

His last conscious thought was whether or not he should give Percy a scone… hmmm… depended on how much work he dumped on them tomorrow….

The bed hummed with aftershocks and something tumbled to the floor with a _clatter_ and _thump_. The clock. Ron's head spun, confused. He sat up, blinked at the pitch-black.

He felt Draco squirm away, "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" scrabbling free of his legs and swearing in about fifteen languages. Ron didn't have time to think _what-the--_

-- before the next explosion hit, rattling the walls. It buzzed like a wave that rippled through the room. Dust and plaster trickled onto the bed.

Oh holy shit. All Ron could think was that _alchemic magic was really fucking illegal _and_ who-was-using-it? _His hand over his head came away from the wall wet. The paint had liquefied. Which it would. His eyes began to adjust and he could see the white smear across his palm.

"Get up, you lazy sod, and stop staring at your hand! Help me find my pants." A piece of heavy fabric hit Ron across the face and wrapped over his shoulder. That snapped Ron fully awake.

__

Dumbledore.

It had to be.

This was it.

He leaped from the bed and yanked on his trousers, which were what Draco had thrown at him. Never mind underpants. He swiped some cloth off the floor -- Draco's shirt, his own underwear, Draco could go without underwear once in his life; no, there it was. They passed clothes to each other hurriedly, back and forth, cursing the dark. None of the lights worked. They'd expected that.

"Why didn't we drill _this _part?" Draco hissed.

Ron didn't dignify that with an answer. No time to fight, not each other anyway. They were supposed to have slept _dressed_, that's why! It just never lasted.

He tossed Draco the odd Muggle sneakers with the exaggerated tread they'd special-ordered. Draco laced them up and tested them against the wet wall. They slid a little, but seemed to grip pretty well.

Draco wiped the paint on their blanket and Ron almost complained -- till he realised they weren't coming back here, one way or another.

And suddenly it was real. Ron paused in shock.

Another rumble hit a far corner of the Ministry; more plaster dust trickled down. Ron glanced up and guessed it was the south wing, as he started dressing again, slinging his robe over his shoulder. This was some hairy shit. Draco met his eyes intently, black cap already on, the smoky eye shadow already smeared on his cheeks and forehead. He all but disappeared in the dark.

Ron stuffed his pockets with his maps while Draco kicked and ripped down the fake cardboard wall they'd plastered with flour-paste in the back of the room. So much for scones, Ron thought irrelevantly, then forced himself to focus.

He gripped the bed as the room rattled again. The walls heated and glowed red as coals; Draco stepped away from the wall, palms out. Then the light faded, leaving a burning green after-image in Ron's eyes. He blinked it away as pitch-dark fell.

Draco coughed at the dust, and then began handing over more of their carefully hidden 'surprises.' This they knew blindfolded; they'd drilled. With a quick flick, Ron strapped on his modified belt. Small deadly globes dangled, held on by melted and reformed paper clips. He didn't need a wand for those; they had a keyword trigger. Draco's drug-dealer contact was no wizarding arms dealer, but these days Morphospheres were everywhere.

The coil of rope Draco slung over his shoulder was still bright pink and yellow after all their attempts to dye it. Fuck, that made him a _lot_ more visible, a bright slash in the dark. But they already knew that and had decided they couldn't use bootblack as Percy suggested; couldn't risk slicking the rope. That could be Draco's neck.

Momentarily, a ghost-image of desks and furniture, the office their room used to be, flickered around them. Ron found himself standing in a hazy white plant. He stepped aside, in case it materialised completely; Draco froze. There was a distant sound like rolling thunder and the image faded. Ron let out a breath.

From behind the wall, Draco quickly pulled out identical wand arm-holsters. Ron's was empty, while an ebony wand glistened in Draco's: his first and most valuable bit of contraband. Ron quickly smeared his cheeks with the eye shadow, and pulled a cap over his red hair.

"Ready?" he said in a hoarse voice. Troll guards, humiliation, slave labour for Death Eaters for almost a year… the Arena. Oh yeah. Draco nodded.

"Good." Ron's face was victoriously grim. "Let's fuck 'em up."

Draco's fierce smile gleamed in the dark. He drew the wand, and God — that had to feel good.

It was weirdly freeing to know that you were either out of there, or dead by the end of the night.

He skipped and dodged furniture in the dark -- goodbye couch, seen some high times but good riddance -- their shoulders bumping as he beat Draco to the door. The doorknob rattled under his hand. It refused to turn.

"Shit," Ron hissed. It wasn't supposed to be locked! There was some kind of alarm system. He scanned the indistinct wall for an air duct, searching some other way out that he knew didn't exist. But Draco didn't waste a second: "_Alohomora!_"

It didn't budge.

"_Nosferatu!_" They both ducked as the door blasted open in a shower of splinters. Ron let his arm drop from his face.

"Kind of overkill, don't you think?" But they chuckled. Who could blame him? How long had it been? Ron poked his head into the hall and looked both ways. It was dark and empty, weirdly silent.

No guards? That could be good or bad.

He whispered, frozen at the edge of the door though he didn't know why, "Shit. We gotta get Percy. He's locked in."

They were supposed to split up here, but Percy had to knock out the lifts for Draco, among other things.

"I got him," Ron said after a moment.

Draco's brows knotted. "Take the wand," he said hesitantly, holding it out.

"Don't be stupid."

Draco didn't argue. His eyes unfocused for a second. "I have it. Stand back --" he told Ron, and aimed his wand at him. "_Desiratiea!_"

"What -?" Ron's skin crawled and crackled as the spell hit. He held out his hands, which felt funny, creepy-crawly, as he turned them. But there was no glow or sign of the spell. Draco backed away.

"Don't touch anything till you get to his door, or you'll discharge the curse. And make sure he stands well back." He smiled. "Welcome to dark magic, Weasley." Ron just snorted.

They stood there a moment, wordless. Draco was an indistinct paleness, his eyes dark as Ron looked at him one last time. Ron couldn't think of a thing to say. Draco gave a sarcastic half-smile and Ron could almost hear him think, _What are you waiting for -- a goodbye snog?_ But he didn't say it. And that alone said something.

"Good luck," Ron breathed.

Draco nodded. "I'll see you at the checkpoint when this is all over."

He touched his wand to his forehead in a mocking salute, then turned and trotted down the hall a few steps. He caught himself and spun around the other direction. Draco always did shit like that. Then he wondered why Ron worried.

Ron swallowed and watched him leave, shaking his head. Bet he hoped Ron hadn't noticed.

Ron stepped over the rubble of their door, making for the stairs to Percy's room, puzzled there was no alarm yet. That magic ought to have triggered something. And the distant rumbles had rolled to a stop.

Could they be wrong? 'Cause if Dumbledore hadn't attacked, well -- this would be one very short battle.

Maybe it was a diversion.

He hurried down the hall and climbed the steps two at a time, the same he and Draco had staggered up, stoned, just months before. Then he stopped at the landing -- _shit_ -- as beams of light stroked across the walls of Percy's hallway. Ron moved as close to the banister as he dared and glanced back. There was no other way.

He crept slowly to the top of the stair.

Sweat trickled down Ron's back, though it was freezing cold where he stood by the edge of the entrance, trying not to breathe so goddamned loud. He was inches away from the hard marble walls, his body buzzing and humming in a way that he was sure was audible. The moving ball of light rose towards the high ceilings of Percy's hall, glinting on the glass of darkened underground windows. It highlighted gargoyles and arabesques and a beam searched the corners. The door to Percy's was nearly half the length of the hall away. Beneath the light somewhere, around the corner, was a wizard. Had to be.

Why couldn't it be a troll?

Ron silently cursed his rotten luck and desperately wished he'd thought to throw the splintered door back into their flat, but it was too late. Even if he slipped past, the moment they saw it….

The shadow of the guard stretched out along the floor, and slowly grew. Footsteps clicked closer, almost on him -- he was coming for the stair. A boot came into view. Ron made his decision.

He leapt, and saw a look of wide-eyed surprise on a young face caught in the yellow flash that arced out of his hands, poisonous and bright, as Ron seized a warm throat.

The man flailed, pulled, and a surprising jolt loosened Ron's grip, but he held on -- with the grimace of white teeth the guard's body arched backward, a weight that yanked Ron into the hall. An elbow slammed Ron's jaw and the man's eyes rolled back. He jerked once more and dragged Ron to the ground; his hands curled up like dead spiders.

Footsteps pattered away from them.

Ron looked up just in time to see the Death Eater's partner turn the far corner, gone. The last bobbing light sculpted the arch of the Ministry hallway, then winked out behind him.

Oh fuck.

Ron tried to stand, black fabric and buttons sliding through his hands. His foot slipped on something round that rang with a hollow wooden sound and he dropped the limp body, dazed. Dead. Ron stood over it, breathing hard.

The weird crackly feeling was gone. He had no way to open Percy's door.

He reached down and found the item he'd slipped on. Ron's hands curled around the thick round wand, solid and real in his hands. He was armed. His jaw hardened and he fought down the temptation to hit the Death Eater with another curse as he stepped over the body.

Callous? Maybe, but these people had killed his friends.

The hall was eerily quiet, the heavy silence after a storm. Draco could hear nothing but his own breath, and the _shush-shush_ of fabric as he moved in a ground-covering trot down the softly echoing hallway. He was still red-faced from his little slip and he really hoped Ron hadn't noticed he'd gone the wrong way. For an instant. Though it was his fault for staring and distracting him like that.

He lowered his head and steeled himself. From here on out, he was on his own. Percy's part might help, but Draco didn't count on that weak link. At any rate, he couldn't afford any ties or dependencies any more.

Draco paused at a turn and peered around the corner. There wasn't a soul in sight, though no doubt "employees" had their ears pressed to each door he passed, sealed in along the long halls. If they had any brains at all, they'd be out here too, now wouldn't they.

He slowed his approach to the rough brick wall that sealed off the pampered pure-blood prisoners' quarters from the rest of the Ministry. It clashed horribly with the elegant Ministry architecture -- Death Eaters did everything on the cheap, reason enough to defy them. The doorway was empty.

It seemed the two guards were away from their posts. Quite a stroke of luck. Draco put away his wand.

"_Antigone_," he whispered, and stepped forward, half-expecting to meet harsh brick with his shoulder. But he melted right through the wall just like Percy did most mornings, bypassing the guardroom where prisoners were patted down before entering the Ministry proper.

It seemed there was a use for that Weasley after all. In front of him stood a second brick wall, with the brightly lit revolving door appearing and disappearing through it. Draco took a breath -- _here goes nothing_ -- ran three steps… and leapt up into it, hitting the glass with a bang. His forearms braced, the Muggle shoes squeaked on the glass as he climbed, the doors circling round and around. He let out a gusty breath when he reached the comforting grip of wood.

In the Ministry Atrium the revolving door from the prisoners' rooms lit up and started to spin. From far across the hall, a troll grunted and stared at it, tipping its head quizzically. Slowly the door spun to a halt.

It was empty.

Not supposed to be empty.

Not supposed to be full. Wrong time. Nighttime. Prisoners asleep.

The troll's nostrils expanded and huffed. It smelled man-smell. But it always smelled man-smell here. Man-sweat, dirty.

Fresh? Not fresh? Hard to know. See nothing.

It sniffed strongly, loudly, for man-magic.

Nothing.

Then the door light went out.

It was supposed to be out. All was good. The troll stood its post and forgot about empty doors and lights.

One of the lift doors beside the troll rattled open. At that moment there was a light thump, as Draco dropped down from where he'd been braced against the ceiling of the revolving door, unnoticed.

Percy was dressed in a long dark robe, official Ministry attire, and absolutely furious by the time Ron blasted open his door.

"It took you long enough!" he whispered loudly. "Draco's probably to the Atrium by now."

"I ran into some trouble," Ron hissed back. "You didn't tell us the doors would lock down!"

"I didn't know. Here, hold this."

He stuffed a huge book into Ron's arms as he stepped over the shattered remnants of wood that caught on his hem. Sometimes Percy was unbelievable. Ron kicked the pieces into Percy's flat to buy them some time, though fortunately most of it had blasted inward.

Ron looked down at the book. It was a broom repair manual.

"I hate to tell you this, Percy, but you can't take anything with you." Least of all this. But Percy ignored him and snatched the book from his hands.

He began flipping through pages and hurried down the hall with a little skip like he was late for class at Hogwarts. Ron trailed after him, mouth slightly open. Finally Percy stopped in front of where their father's Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office used to be. He tore a page from the book -- and there should not have been a blue flare at that -- and then slid the page down a joint in the walls, at a point where two protection wards came together. Something fell out with a hollow _clatter-thunk_ at his feet.

Percy picked up with a flourish a very familiar wand, and Ron's eyes widened.

Its magical signature must have been hidden by the powerful Ministry wards, and probably buried further by Lucius' own magic. Which was terrific, but Ron was going to kill him.

"Just who's in charge here?" he complained. "You've had that the whole time and you couldn't say?" How could he plan if his own team didn't tell him anything?!

"As Interim Minister of Magic, I knew we were losing…."

Ron rolled his eyes. A blind man could have told them they were losing.

"They had us. But if anything happened to you, I was going to raise a ruckus," Percy said, staring straight ahead over the tip of his wand in the dark.

And then, somehow, Ron didn't feel like yelling at him any more. Percy continued in his familiar irritating tone, "But just how did you _think_ I was going to drop the Ministry defences without magic?"

"Well." Ron scrambled vainly for his lost authority; older brothers were the worst. "You're late."

Percy nodded, slipped the wand into his pocket and set off. He paused briefly to toss the book back in his quarters and then froze at the sight of the dead guard. He looked back at Ron, very still and clearly startled. Ron spread his hands. He'd said he'd had trouble.

Percy took a breath and straightened, looking away from it. Giving the body a cautious berth, he lowered his head and strode down the middle of the hall, robes flapping as if he had every business being there. Ron made for the opposite exit as Percy turned the corner of the stairs.

Behind him he heard Percy being stopped by the remaining guard, and his brother's raised voice drawing the Death Eater away, "Follow me! There has been a break-out on the level below us… yes of course I'm allowed out. I have explicit instructions from Lucius and I need you to escort me to him --" There was an angry murmur from the guard, confused as usual by Percy's dual status as prisoner and Lucius' privileged secretary. "-- all right then, I'll just go by myself, though I doubt he'll be impressed…" Another murmur, sharply cut off by Percy. "Well, obviously your orders are _out of date_, because _here I_ **_am_**."

There was a clip of footsteps down the stairs. "I have no time for this nonsense. I'm supposed to report to the Lord of Magic personally…."

Ron shrank against a door and listened as they left. It was almost scary how Percy had learned to lie as smoothly as Lucius Malfoy. But he supposed they'd all changed.

Six trolls lined the far wall, spaced evenly between the lifts at the furthest end of the Ministry Atrium. They almost looked like statues to Draco from where he lay pressed against the floor. But then they'd shift from one foot to another, or snort, huffing through broad noses, and he'd freeze.

It was that sense of smell he had to worry about, but at this distance the grime of the Ministry covered his scent. He hoped. Though these floors hadn't been scrubbed since the Death Eaters took over. Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste at the gummy marble against his cheek as he edged and crawled slowly along the wall, picking his hands and chest off the floor carefully. Inch by inch. Arms shaking under his cautious movement.

Soundless, soundless. Their eyesight's terrible, but they could hear all right.

Despite the dim light, he felt utterly exposed in the open, high-ceilinged hall, no matter that he knew full well this was just more territory to watch. Short-staffed, they're short-staffed, remember that.

There used to be a guard at the revolving door.

Along the sides of the Atrium were large, cobweb-lined openings, fireplaces formerly connected to the Floo network. He only needed to reach the nearest. Sweat beaded his forehead. His father intended to open the Ministry after the war "under new management," Draco was sure of it, so he wouldn't have done any permanent damage to the network. But he hadn't mentioned to Ron just how much of a guess this was.

__

Thup.

Draco froze at the sound of his rope; one coil had dropped. At the far end of the Atrium, the trolls perked up, glanced this way and that, whuffling with interest. Torn between prey instinct and staying at their posts.

He glanced ahead. He had only a few meters left to go.

Then the revolving door behind him lit up and started to spin. Percy Weasley staggered out, followed by a guard with his wand drawn. And Weasley, dammit, saw him on the ground and stopped cold, his jaw dropping.

The guard instantly followed his eyes.

Draco rolled left as the hex hit, heating the floor, sprang up and dove for the fireplace as the trolls thundered and broke.

"Ow! Watch where you're going!" he heard Weasley squawk as the guard's next spell went wild. The guard cursed him roundly. "_Now_ do you believe me? The Lord of Magic must be informed immed-"

The guard yelled, "_Get outter' th'way!_"

Draco hit the back of the fireplace at a dead run and scrabbled for the repairman's rungs. One snapped under his foot, he slid, banging his knee -- Draco barely felt it -- but the next was solid.

A huge ham-handed fist felt around the Floo blindly as Draco climbed and climbed, slipping on footholds in the blackness. The troll filled the fireplace, blocking it behind him, but could only fit an arm. The creature bellowed, a guard shouted a spell, and Draco broke a cardinal rule and looked back. Flesh-eating bugs swarmed up the troll and it howled, thrashing. Draco scrambled up high in a panic. He locked an elbow around a rung, drew his wand and hoped Lucius hadn't blocked repair access.

He cast the repair charm and a roaring bright ball of orange enveloped him, flaring white and hot -- a random Floo connection. Only an idiot would shout out where he's going now. Draco threw the powder and prayed he'd land within the Ministry.

Draco tumbled into a darkened chimney and landed with a hard _thump_, and the orange heat flickered and disappeared around him. He held his suddenly hot, throbbing knee and rocked back and forth as he bit his lip. Fucking Weasley.

As the pain faded in waves, he took a few breaths and looked around himself. The fireplace was dusty and loosely boarded up. He peered through a crack in the boards.

He had no earthly clue where he was.

From the other end of the hall, Ron watched Percy and the other guard vanish through the brick wall, Percy striding ahead as if off to work, while the confused guard had his wand drawn like he was escorting a prisoner. At least both guards were pretty well handled. Ron briefly considered going back for the other guard's uniform, then shuddered at the idea.

He waited till a count of ten.

Quietly, he approached the wall, whispered, "_Antigone_," slid through the fading brick, and stepped into the stuffy guardroom. It was pitch black and stank of troll sweat. He felt around the floor -- and there it was, just like Percy had said. Ron heaved up on the ring of the trap door and fell back away from a powerful stench, coughing, pulling his sleeve over his face, wand out. Phew! He was willing to bet only the troll guards came this way.

Ron blinked at the black square in the darkness, wand pointed and ready. But no trolls popped up. So far, so good, eh?

Ron took a final breath and descended some crude steps to a rough tunnel that he was sure wasn't here before they had trolls burrowing through the Ministry of Magic. He carefully pulled the weight of the trap door shut above him and was enveloped in darkness.

The air was cool, dank, and Ron swiped away a bit of cobweb that brushed his face. He lowered his wand slightly as he scuffed along the uneven floor.

As his eyes adjusted, he discovered the curved walls and ceiling were dotted with patches of some sort of greenish phosphorescent fungus. Which made sense. Trolls were nocturnal, but even cats needed some light. It looked vile, and he vaguely hoped they didn't eat the stuff.

No, trolls ate rotten meat. Hagrid had taught them that. If a troll got you, they'd kill you and then stash your body to ripen for a while.

Which was probably not the best thing to be thinking about as he descended into a nest of them.

Ron's mind bounded around in a sort of controlled panic as his imagination peopled the dark with trolls, or spiders that would also stash you in a cocoon, to eat you – _live_. Or smaller, climb up your trouser-leg in the dark with poison and-- Ron shook himself. He was a grown wizard. Even if he'd give anything to be facing nice, normal, power-mad dark wizards at the end of this tunnel. He adjusted the belt with the Morphospheres, held his wand at ready and descended cautiously into a wall of darkness.

Draco peered as best as he could around the room through a crack between the boards. He smothered a sneeze, though the place appeared to be empty with no sign of any guards. There was a slash of white light under a door across the room, and he could see table legs and the roundish shapes of large vats backlit, looming. And those vats gave him his final clue as to where he was.

One floor directly above the Atrium. The kitchens, behind the Ministry cafeteria.

If he had the ability to turn into a rat he'd fit right in. But as it was he needed a larger opening. Draco braced his foot to kick out one of the boards -- and stopped, as the memory of Ron's maps they'd smuggled out to Dumbledore floated back into his mind. He recalled why there were no guards here. He sat up a little and peered down through the boards at the floor.

Sure enough, small lumps were scattered about, hidden under dishtowels and oven mitts that rose and fell with tiny little breaths. One pointed ear flicked and the creature squirmed, maggot-like, then settled back to sleep.

It was an entire infestation of house-elves. Each and every one of them loyal to Lucius Malfoy. Draco wrinkled his nose. Tempting as it was to do an _Avido Acuea_ and freeze them where they were, he didn't fancy fighting a dozen different varieties of Elf-Magic if he missed any. Wizards had standard spells, but each elf's magic was unique.

Draco chewed his lower lip and tried to visualise the map of guard positions Ron had sent Dumbledore's forces. Then he rubbed his forehead, and sat back with a sigh. Even if he got past them, the doors beyond led to yellow section -- the Mudblood barracks. Heavily guarded, since those prisoners were the source of most of the trouble. Or so Lucius thought. Draco couldn't help but smile a little to himself.

He found himself staring up the huge black hole of a chimney. He stood.

Well, well, Saint Nick. It seemed someone had the right idea.

Draco stretched and reached, and for once wished for a bit of Ron's height. The opening overhead was just slightly -- he jumped -- out… of… reach. He leapt, caught and scrabbled at an edge. Pebbles trickled down as Draco dropped and turned away from an eyeful of dirt.

Finally he uncoiled the rope from around his shoulders, and aimed for the handle that opened and closed the flue. He threw it, wishing he dared use magic.

And missed. Dammit.

He threw again.

He was just growing frustrated with near misses, the rope sliding uselessly off the metal bar and clattering down with too much noise -- when it finally arched over, startling him. With a nervous but growing sense of victory, he slowly paid the rope out, and then grabbed the loop as it came within reach. Got it! He tied a bowline over the handle, tested his weight, and shimmied up, swinging wildly with a grunt. Inside the chimney, his feet braced to either wall, he struggled with the knot, cursing it. Then he wriggled his hands into leather gloves, which he'd cut the fingers off.

Now. To see where this goes.

Scattering crumbled brick, Draco started to climb.

After half an hour or so of oppressive black, though it seemed a lot longer, Ron wished he'd brought some water. Or a scarf to keep out the rotten smell. He coughed, smothering it, fast. Here and there a breath of cold fresh air spoke of open passageways to one side or another, but he followed the downward curve that flowed steadily to the right.

Strange. The tunnel didn't seem nearly high enough for a troll to walk.

Ron's breath came in an echoing harsh pant at the acrid air. He held it for a moment to keep from giving himself away, but the panting sound continued. Followed by a bellowing _huff_. And a heavy tread.

__

Shit!

Ron dove down a cobwebby side-passage and waited, a wisp of something tickling the back of his neck.

The panting sound grew louder, heavier. But nothing came. Ron shifted in the cold air of the caverns. The rock was slick and wet under his hand and he pulled away, wiping it on his sweater. There was more breathing, and an echo of thumping steps. But still nothing. He looked around, trying to pierce the dark.

Acoustics, Ron decided. The tunnels just made things seem closer. He brushed at whatever it was on his neck, about to step into the main passageway.

Then the footsteps rounded a corner, suddenly loud, trampling at great speed, and Ron froze. An enormous shadow-creature moved past, bent over, taking up the whole tunnel as it knuckle-walked -- and then was gone. The troll left a whirl of stench behind it.

Ron silently swore to himself. Fuck. He never felt so small in his life. He huddled there for a minute.

It was one thing to deal with trolls when you knew they were under orders and just what they could do. Still another to face them -- alone -- in their own territory.

He was starting to think Draco had the easy part.

Ron finally dusted himself off and shook his head. Well. At least he knew he was going the right direction.

Draco's shoulders ached and his legs felt like rubber. The chimney was shot through with points of yellow light where mortar had crumbled away. Draco peered like a prisoner into empty offices and hallways.

He gazed up the shaft in frustration. This chimney probably went straight out into the outside world -- a terrific escape route, if that were his goal. Weasley had screwed up everything.

Tiredly, he reached for another handhold -- and found himself clutching, swinging at air as the brick pulled away. With a crack, his head hit the other side and he saw red as he slammed his shoulders into the bricks, breaking his fall, knees skidding wet-hot on the other side as he stopped. And he panted.

A scattering of stones and a distant _poff_ told him how far it was to the ground.

A few wand lengths overhead there was now a dim beckoning rectangle of light.

All right, that was it. He was getting out of there. He drew his wand, and to hell with whatever magic might bring.

The trolls passed Ron more frequently as he descended, but by the third or fourth pass it had become routine. They never looked right or left. Ron learned to keep tabs on the nearest cross-passage as he'd had to double-back to find one – quick -- a couple of times. But it seemed the trolls didn't expect company, or else couldn't think of more than one thing at a time.

Which was all right with him.

Some of the side-passages had clearly been used by humans before. Perhaps burrowed through by the trolls? At one point he'd even found a dry fountain with a curved bench beside it, delicate and human-sized. He'd waited there, happy to sit down for a moment and feeling strangely safe. There was no answer to the mystery, but Ron resolved to ask Percy about it, if he ever got a chance. That made him wonder where Percy and Draco might be, and what they were facing, and if… but that didn't bear thinking about. All he could do was his own job, here and now.

He ground his teeth and moved faster down the tunnel.

He'd been descending a good forty-five minutes when the passage grew wider, with more pebbles underfoot to trip him. The walls were rough enough to cut his hands. Ron took a deep breath; then an instant later realised he _could_ take a breath without coughing. He took another, deeper. The smell… had dissipated somewhat. His senses, mostly reduced to intensified sound and smell, told him that the closeness of the tunnels had almost gone. He was coming towards a much bigger, open area.

He slowed. As he rounded a curve, he stopped and blinked at a blazingly bright light.

After a moment, his eyes adjusted, and the light reduced to the faint flickering reddish glow of torchlight sculpting the edges of the tunnel. Ron dropped to his knees and crept up to the opening, peering around the rock.

There was a huge cavern with a ceiling that stretched up into darkness, and many different openings like this one, in a circle. At the far side, slightly to the right, were two torches marking another, larger opening. A memory tickled the back of Ron's mind, something about fire and troll-houses and chiefs. He couldn't quite remember. Never thought Care of Magical Creatures would be all that important. But there were several trolls squatting in front of that entrance, and it was pretty obvious what it was: the guard barracks.

Ron mentally slapped himself. Brilliant plan, Weasley. He'd assumed there would be some cover, that he'd be following a narrow passageway, right up to the barracks.

What was he supposed to do now, just walk up and knock on their front door?

He thought of all the trolls that had passed him in the tunnels. Hmm… maybe he didn't have to change this all that much.

He told himself that he was barking mad, that this would never work, but he stood anyway, straightening his robes. He readied a spell just in case, as he palmed one of the Morphospheres -- took a deep breath -- and stepped out into the cavern.

One of the trolls looked up in curiosity, and the others followed its gaze. Ron kept walking towards them, not looking in their direction. He could almost hear Hagrid's voice, _Don' scare em! Trolls are predators, yeh see. But yeh walk up nice an' easy, like yer don' even notice 'em, an' they'll take the hint._

A few others peered around the edge of their cavern. Blinking.

__

Now don' look 'em in the eye, that's a challenge to 'em…

That was five. With the guards on night duty, there should only be fifteen more. A little hysterical laugh in Ron's mind repeated, "_Only_ fifteen more." But so long as none came out of the tunnels behind him… a quick glance over his shoulder showed that they were still empty.

There were scattered bones in front of the trolls, and cubes that looked like… dice? Did trolls play games? He hesitated to think what the bones were, though his imagination provided some inconveniently vivid pictures.

__

Now don' be nervous-like. Makes the big fella edgy. They can smell fear. Sure, no problem, Ron told that voice. Sweat stuck Ron's robes to his back and made the Morphosphere in his palm slippery.But the trolls didn't move, except to turn curiously to each other. He was only two broom-lengths away.

Ron changed the angle of his approach, as if he were going to walk past them on his way to somewhere else. Over his left shoulder the other tunnel openings were still black and empty. Then he dropped the Morphosphere, muttering the keyword; it set with a click and a faint glow. It bounced, then vanished as it Apparated to his target, and then…

__

Bullseye! It reappeared right in front of the doorway! The trolls stared at the odd lop-sided globe that wobbled at their feet, ignoring him.

Then he caught a glimpse as he passed the troll barracks that made his eyes bug out: at least thirty to fifty trolls, milling around down a long, steep, dark passage like an anthill. Neck frozen stiff, Ron kept walking, his back practically dripping.

There weren't supposed to be that many! He'd counted the shifts for months! Ron kept walking towards the nearest passage, heart pounding.

__

Now don' ever run, that Hagrid-voice told him._ If yer run, then yer prey._

Ron kept walking; the nearest passage was way too far away. A dozen broom-lengths, at least. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the trolls pick the Morphosphere up and peer at it.

__

No, no, no! You fucking, stupid -- put it down! Put it down! he mentally shouted at it.

The troll bit on the Morphosphere. Then held it up to its eye.

Ron kept walking, swearing silently.

__

Fwooomp.

He felt more than heard the implosion, the wave of heat radiating out. He inadvertently glanced back as a troll, instead of the barracks, transformed into mud and collapsed into a pile of ochre goo.

The other trolls stared at it.

Looked at Ron. Turned to the former troll.

Ron quickened his pace, drawing the Death Eater's wand. _Don't run… don't run…._

They looked again towards Ron. One of them growled. Then a dozen trolls came to the opening, looking left and right.

One pointed in Ron's direction.

__

-- RUN!

Ron bolted for the nearest tunnel, bellowing trolls hot on his heels.

Draco dove under a table. A man-shaped shadow peered into the room, either investigating the burst of magic or the noise.

Where did _he_ come from?

He stalked slowly, cat-like, and Draco held his breath.

The doorway silhouetted a masked head as it turned in a slow arc to examine the room. Rows of desks and trash bins and a chart with one of Percy's 'progress reports' on an easel -- it probably paced the room during the day -- stood between Draco and escape. The guard had brought no light, effectively taking away Draco's only advantage, being acclimated to the dark. He'd planned to knock out lights and escape while any guards were blinded. But this one seemed to be aware you lost your peripheral vision with torches and Lumos.

He wore no uniform, but he moved sharp, like a soldier.

A good one.

Draco had the sudden sinking feeling that yet again they didn't know all of Lucius' defences. Wonderful, Weasley. He thought of Percy's confident "oh yes, Lucius tells me everything" with renewed cynicism, glad he'd laughed in his face. Yet Lucius _had_ trusted him with too much. It made no sense. He edged closer to the door, wand at ready.

The guard crossed to the wall -- covering one side, Draco noted with sour approval -- keeping an eye the doorway over his shoulder.

He came to a blank wall in the clutter. Kicked at the out-of-place pebbles and dirt. Draco winced. The guard bent to pick up a piece of crumbled brick. Then threw it at the wall. It vanished through Draco's glamour, clattering lightly down the chimney.

The guard shouted an unfamiliar word. Instantly, the room and halls lit up with red light.

He threw a disc in the air, and Draco, recognising it, broke cover and ran, tumbling out the door -- just as the sticky strands filled the room. He hit the marble floor with bruising speed, sprawled, as something grabbed his foot -- he prayed the gummy, sticky tentacles would be blocked by rubber soles. The paralysis they caused was permanent. He kicked in panic, then realised it was the guard, and kicked his face again, hard.

The guard was shiny-slick with wax to protect from his own trap, and Draco slipped free, scrambling to his feet. He dodged right instead of running straight down the hall, counter-intuitive but --

-- the hex that winged by him singed his hair.

Draco dodged -- left -- right -- erratic, unable to gain time to throw any spells of his own. He looked back and saw his adversary skidding on the marble floors.

The wax! Draco laughed out loud, inspired, "_Glassidus!_"

The entire hall was covered in a sheet of ice, crackling as it spread. His adversary slid into the wall, then scrambled up. Draco pointed the wand at his own shoes as he ran. _Let's make this dodging a little easier_: "_Aliped Lapsus!_" And they turned into ice skates.

He tripped a couple steps, but caught his balance, swinging his arms and getting low. A fireball shot by as he picked up speed. The wind was cool on his face, his head down, pumping to gain momentum. The blades sang. Draco glanced over his shoulder. The guard was glissading on his boots, using the ice. But falling behind quickly.

Draco dug in a blade and sped down the hall, arching right and left. He skated around a curve in the hallway, and heard the guard shout: "_Incendio!_" trying to melt the ice around him. Good. If he was fighting the ice, he wasn't fighting Draco. Draco holstered his wand, to focus on speed. Who knew that this would ever prove useful?

He leaned elegantly into a turn, angling around a corner, hands behind his back and --

-- Stairs. He was going too fast to stop.

Draco gathered himself for a jump.

The hall dropped out from under him, a blade yanked him left, he sprawled, elbow cracked against the stairs, that knee again -- _augh! _-- and he slid face-first, smacking his nose on the bottom step.

Draco lay there winded.

Slowly, with a moan, a hand to his face, he pulled his wand out of the holster and turned the skates back into the shoes. He glanced up, where the hall ceiling was cut a couple feet higher than the slope of the ceiling over the stair.

Moments later, the guard reached the stairs. Bits of ice were carved out and flung like a snowstorm, and the banister had a prominent scratch. There were drops of blood on the bottom step. The guard bent down and touched it. He grunted with satisfaction, looked left, then right. Then with a light, tireless tread, hurried down the hall.

The patter of his footsteps faded and dissipated.

Overhead, spread-eagled with one foot on either side of the hall, Draco shook his head. They never did think to look up.

He wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand and dropped, unsteadily, to the floor.

Ron dodged down one of the narrow side-tunnels, too small for a troll, and drew the wand: "_Imago Draconus!_"

A glowing orange ball of light bloomed from the end, filling the passage behind him. The dragon was Slytherin green, and belched fire. Six trolls howled in rage, stalled. They stepped back, then back again, as the dragon stalked forward menacingly.

Only trolls would be so stupid as to not notice the fire didn't burn. But that illusion wouldn't last long. Ron turned and ran with heavy, tired steps, wishing he had Draco's speed.

Glancing in both directions, Ron decided on the nearest left, swiping at cobwebs and hoping to circle back to the barracks. With any luck, he'd emptied them in the chase and could try again. He wouldn't get all the trolls, but at least he'd seal that entrance.

He turned left again, and found himself in a room full of stone furniture, with no way out. He spun around, his throat hoarse from panting, hopelessly confused. Merlin's Arse. At least the troll tunnels only went one way: down.

He bent and leaned on his knees to catch his breath. After a moment, he conjured a compass, though there was little of the phosphorescent moss here. "_Lumos!_"

In the light, he found that the compass had a skull and snake in the centre, thanks to the Death Eater's wand, but still worked. By his guess, he had to go more or less northwest. He pocketed the compass, banished the light and slipped out of the room, blinking in the sudden dark.

"Hold right where you are."

Ron froze at the wandtip pressed to his head. He spun sharply and grabbed it, grappling with a strange tall wizard in the dark. He rolled and pressed a skinny arm to the floor, knees kicking in a smell of sweat and fabric. The man thumped Ron's back with a heavy boot. Ron slammed his head into the floor just for that, leaned on an arm over his throat.

"Hold it!" said a voice behind him.

He became aware of a group stepping out of the shadows all around him, and a new wand pointed at the back of his head. Several more dark shadows drew their wands. He sat up in a deadly circle; he didn't doubt they were prepared to use them. The man under him shoved him off, coughing painfully.

The wizard's wand was ripped out of his hand, as he slowly got up from his knees, palms out.

Shit. When they took him back to his cell, they'd see Draco was gone!

But it didn't feel right. He never heard of any guard units down here. Plus they usually travelled in teams of two.

"You bleeding moron," said the second voice as he handed the first wizard his wand; the man dusted himself off. "You _never_ stand that close."

That certainly didn't sound like Death Eaters. In the dark Ron squinted, and vaguely made out that the five men encircling him wore a curious uniform, close-fitting and black, with bulging pockets and belts. It had an insignia of a green lightning bolt over the pocket -- a shape he'd seen since he was eleven.

"Harry?"

The wizards glanced at each other, and another wizard returned from down the tunnel, trailed by two more.

The lead wizard's voice was low and commanding, older. "We don't have time for prisoners. Kill him and let's go."

"No, wait!" Ron said.

"He might have information," a stocky soldier to his left suggested, as two other soldiers arrived from the tunnels beyond Ron.

"Ron? Is that you?" Ron was never so glad to hear that familiar voice him.

"Creevey!" _Shit_, what was his first name? "Dennis -- no, Denny!"

"Hi!" The familiar bright voice approached. Ron looked up at him. God, he was tall now. Creevey took in the scene and turned to his commander. "Sir, this is Ron Weasley. He disappeared in the Ministry siege almost a year ago."

"I'm a prisoner," Ron spluttered, "or, well, I was -- did you get the maps?" If he was gonna die, he at least wanted to know that first.

The leader hesitated, measuring Ron with his eyes.

"I can vouch for him, sir. He's no Death Eater," Denny added with an urgent nod.

The wizard Ron had beaten wiped his face and turned to Denny. "Prisoner? Then what's he doing here, eh? There've been skads of traitors."

"Did you get the maps?" Ron blurted out, ignoring him. "The maps I made -- guard stations, passwords, shift changes -- spent months on it. Pages and pages. We had to bribe a drug dealer to take them to you." Ron forgot that they wouldn't know what he meant by 'we.' "Did you get them?" Ron saw their leader smile slightly.

"Yes. Got 'em." He snorted. "Would have been nice if at least _one_ of those passwords worked."

The group visibly relaxed.

"You didn't get the last ones then. They change the passwords, every week," Ron said, "but I've the latest from Percy." He didn't realise, of course, that Percy's name would mean nothing to them, though it was currency in the prison. He'd been in that world a long time.

"So then. The maps are real after all," the leader said thoughtfully. He was small, with a bald head and wiry build. "We paid quite a bit for 'em."

"Paid?" Ron said in disgust. "He was supposed to _give_ them to you! He was _already_ paid."

The leader nodded wryly, and gestured to the man holding Ron. "Give him his wand."

The soldier behind Ron started; his voice was high and young. "Sir?"

"Give him the wand."

The lad nodded curtly then, all argument ended.

The soldiers started moving. The two who'd followed the leader down the tunnel began issuing orders; the others shouldered packs that vanished once they were up. One had strapped to his back something that looked oddly like a ventriloquist's dummy, before it disappeared. A shorter kid replaced clinking vials in a bandolier he adjusted across his chest.

Ron breathed a sigh of relief as the Death Eater's wand was handed back to him. He saluted sloppily, painfully aware that he was nowhere near the professional soldier; not compared to these. "All right then." He turned to leave.

"Where do you think you're going." The commanding voice stopped him. It wasn't a question.

"I - I've a mission. I have to take down the troll barracks." Never mind he'd sent himself; though he wasn't feeling much like a commander at the moment. He indicated the Morphospheres. "Stupid troll grabbed the last one. So I gotta go back."

Yeah. He looked around at their faces. That's right. He'd faced down over a dozen trolls, alone.

That caused a stir, and the young men shifted, shaking their heads.

"You idiot. You do that, you'll bury our people."

"Shit."

"I can't believe it…"

The leader's heavy hand thumped Ron on the back, cutting them off. "Don't worry about the barracks, kid. They're well in hand." He guided Ron in the opposite direction, back into the prison. "You and your passwords are coming with us."

Draco limped up the stairs, doubling back. His knee and elbow throbbed, and his nose felt hot as he snuffled thickly on what was probably blood. His hands were smeared with red.

From the signage, he sorted out that he was in blue section, which was third floor, the former _Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes_, more recently the Death Eater's _Division of Magical Innovation and Experiments_. Percy's notices were everywhere: _Congratulations Blue Section -- 80% Efficiency!_ with the large silver star that so irritated everyone when it replaced fresh fruit and other real performance awards.

It suddenly struck Draco as bizarre that he'd planned to bake scones today, and maybe surprise Ron at his office. Had he really grown that comfortable?

He frowned, and struggled with the mental image of maps that he'd never thought he'd need, but couldn't bring the third floor layout to mind. Fortunately, it didn't look too different from Ron's floor, so he swiped his hair off his face and made a guess. He padded over the wet marble as his slick of ice melted underfoot. He glanced back.

Behind him he'd left a long trail of wet footprints as obvious as a beacon. But using magic to dry them would draw more of that guard's "friends." Speed was all he had.

Draco sank his teeth into his lower lip, ignored the jangle of his knee, and broke into a loping stride.

He passed doorway after doorway, on edge and nervously alert at each possible point of attack. But they were all dark and safely empty.

The lifts couldn't be too far. Draco shoved aside any doubts that he could handle this part of their plan.

Finally, the brass latticework of the lifts gleamed in front of him like the Holy Grail; Draco was already dragging the rope off his shoulder even as he approached. He had no choice but to use magic here. With a quick backward glance and a flick of the wand, he materialised the Muggle climbing pulley, its smooth wheel spinning as he nearly dropped it -- the hinge at the top clanked far too loudly. The long metal clamp that would secure it in Muggle mountain climbing wasn't strong enough for what he needed. He only hoped that their magical solution would work. That was one thing they could never test.

He glanced up at the dial over the lift: it showed the lift car down on the first floor. And not moving.

Good. At least Percy had killed the lifts. For once things were going according to plan.

He fancied he heard a soft disciplined footstep coming his way.

Breath quickening, Draco hurriedly used the safety spell, which bounced the lift doors open with a soft _ding_. A whoosh of cool air brushed his face, and he looked down at the unfathomable drop.

He paused again. No sound of footsteps. But the guard could have stopped just then.

Draco hurried, frustrated with how slowly his hands moved as he struggled with the rope, dragging it through the mechanism, threading it about and around the wheel, sliding it through a figure eight to keep tension on the rope and control his descent. He measured the extra play of the rope carefully with his forearms. One screw-up there would be serious. He made the two leg loops and stepped into them.

He swallowed as he looked up the well of the lift shaft. Then he very carefully held the pulley out, wand extended. Focusing carefully, he whispered the spell, and it levitated shuddering and slow to the lift cables. The rope pulled taut about his legs, slipping up to his thighs. This was where one mistake could… really foul things up. As he concentrated, till the sweat beaded on his forehead, the ropes dragged him slightly closer to the edge; he staggered an inch, but stopped, as the pulley reached the nearer lift cable.****

"_Incendio!_" He held the spell-flames longer than normal. Now he was certain he heard footsteps, but he didn't dare pause or even look away. The clamp of the pulley melted to a cable in a shower of red sparks and glowing metal, the hinge swaying slightly, angled towards him by the drape of ropes gripped in Draco's hand and about his thighs. He waited carefully until the orange of melted slag died down before he trusted his weight to it, praying the magical solder would hold.

That soft tread, following his wet prints… he heard it again.

Draco glanced back, and was grateful to see the ground had been dry for most of the way. Plus, an escaped prisoner wasn't likely to stand around waiting for a lift, now was he?

Draco sheathed the wand tightly and shut his eyes. Here's where, if it didn't work, there was nothing he could do. His heart pounded as he bit his lip, looked skyward. And stepped off.

Rope bit sharply into his legs as he jerked up like a puppet, bounced. Feet out, he slapped into a wall and grunted. He swung back dizzingly the other way. Spinning, he brushed the opposite wall, swinging back again. Then he gripped his wand like a drunk holds his only beer, _don't drop it here, not here…_and…

"_Excontra Cumbrus!_" He squeezed the wand in a death-grip.

The world reversed, yanking him upside-down, slamming him back into the wall. When he stopped bouncing, stomach queasy, he opened his eyes.

Below him was the open lift door. He could see the floor where he'd been standing moments before. The lift itself, on the first floor, was now far overhead. Draco shook his head to clear the disorientation of a gravity reversal spell, and carefully sheathed the wand.

With clenched teeth, he gave that guard -- wherever he was -- the two-fingered salute. And began to pay out the rope, slowly rappelling _up_, towards his father's floor.

Two men, Xavier and Andrew, went ahead on point guard. Ron gathered they were older and more experienced than the rest. Creevey and another, whose name Ron didn't know, were in the "Van" behind them, while Ron walked alongside the captain with the rest of the crew. They had eleven men -- had lost one he'd heard, on the way in. They talked in harsh whispers, ignoring Ron.

The tunnel levelled out and ended at a blank rock wall. Andrew came back to report.

"We're in the box, sir."

Box?

The captain pulled Ron aside and drew out a small globe. It hovered over his hand briefly, and Ron realised that it showed one of his maps, his handwriting, with all the guard positions drawn in. He couldn't help a surge of pride at that.

"Okay," the captain said, "this says the password is _Lycanthrope_ for the lowest dungeons…"

Ron was already shaking his head. "Months old. This one's changed a lot, and I've never used it, so we have to take it on faith. _Machiavelli_." He turned the captain seriously. "No one's allowed down there."

"We're here to change that." He smiled and motioned to Andrew. The men took their positions.

With the password, the stone door slid open with a harsh grinding rasp. A strange watery light patterned the walls beyond, and the two soldiers crossed the threshold, fast and low, like shadows. There was a silent blue-white flash. Then Andrew peered back around the doorway, waving them forward with a quick gesture.

A Death Eater sprawled on the ground, blackened, clutching a smoking burnt wand. He smelled… good, actually, which make Ron's stomach roil. He looked away.

Softly, they moved down the heavy stone passageway without incident, their feet scuffing on the sandy stone floor. The captain drew out his map, but Ron forestalled him, waving his hand to motion them forward. He'd drawn those maps, dug up the Ministry floor plans; he certainly knew the way. The captain nodded and indicated that Ron should go with the point guard.

Ron wasn't sure what happened next.

To his left, Xavier's foot sank into the stone to his ankle, and then all of a sudden there was a keening wail. Everyone scattered and got low. The stone walls turned as clear as water as the men covered their ears, glancing left and right for an enemy. But it was what they saw on the other side of the walls that made them all freeze.

Prisoners, hundreds of them, immersed up their necks in water, their hair waving on the surface. As Xavier's foot sank into the rock, the water started to rise, covering their mouths. Prisoners eyes went wide with fear and they thrashed, mouths up, gaping like fish, trying to get above it. But they were chained to the bottom. Andrew hauled Xavier out of the rock, but the water kept rising, and the other men launched themselves at the clear wall, blasting it to no effect. A familiar redhead was in clear view. Ron recognised him with a jolt.

"Stop! Stop!" Ron grabbed the captain.

"It's a trick! I don't know what's behind that wall. But let's get out of here!" The men stared at him. He pointed. "That's Percy! But he's _free_. I just saw him no more than an hour ago."

The captain nodded, and they fled from the chamber, though not without backward glances as prisoners' screams were cut off, gurgling; people reached for them in helpless panic. They sealed the next door behind them. The silence fell like a weight.

Ron leaned his arm against the wall, head buried in the crook of his elbow, ignoring the men as they cast him reassessing glances. "Lucius fucking Malfoy."

Draco descended into blackness, the tall rectangle of light disappearing above him. He had a strange sense of déjà vu, though there was considerably more room in this shaft than in that chimney. And down was certainly quicker than up. His thighs were numb where the rope cut into them, and he brushed against the centre cable. He pulled the rope to the side in a sweeping motion, careful not to tangle it.

It was tempting to speed up. In their apartment he'd done many short rappels from the doorjambs, to "test the equipment" of course -- but this was his first _real_ chance. But since he couldn't see the bottom, he thought the better of it.

The open door was a mere spot above when there was a distant _Clunk!_ overhead.

The lift cable thrummed like a harp-string. Draco paused. Then began to pay out the rope again.

Machinery groaned. Whined. There was an ear-grating scraping sound. Then the cable Draco was attached to jerked him like a puppet. He started to slowly rise.

"Percy bloody Weasley, you complete and utter _fuck-up!_" he shouted as he helplessly ascended.

The curtain waved in its empty frame on the dais. Ron gazed up at the familiar sight of rows of seats with stairs between them, ascending from the dim auditorium. The curtain shifted as they passed it, and for the first time Ron heard those whispering voices Harry had mentioned so often. Ron looked up at it sadly, now knowing its purpose: it was used for executions. He was grateful he wasn't in the department that handled that. It was Percy who saw those names, signed the orders for Lucius when he was too busy: which ones went to the dungeons, who went to the Arena, who went to the work camps, or saw the curtain. Very few prisoners were killed outright.

Ron spotted several men up ahead circling the auditorium, but before he could give alarm they waved and made a sort of hand signal. Andrew next to him signalled back, and whispered, "All's clear." Ron nodded uncomprehendingly. As they approached, Ron saw that they all had the same black uniform, with different crests on the pocket: two of them had a gold phoenix -- Dumbledore, he was willing to bet -- and the other had something he didn't recognise, a silver and black snake.

The captain -- Ned, he'd learned -- caught up with them, and the fat, sallow man with the snake badge strode forward. "Who's this?" His head jerked towards Ron.

"Picked up a tourist. Escaped prisoner."

Ron's mouth fell open. _Tourist?_

But, clearly satisfied, the snake captain continued: "Phoenix has secured everything up to the Atrium. Fox team's in place in the fire escapes -- passwords worked there." Ron's felt a grim satisfaction, though there was no way to point out that_ he_ had done that, thanks and you're welcome. Tourist. Though it was Percy really who deserved the credit for the passwords. "Serpent's lost two men, and we haven't seen the rest of phoenix six. These two were cut off." He gestured to the two soldiers.

"The barracks?"

He shook his head. "No word, not yet."

The captain motioned to one of his men, the short blond one whose name Ron didn't know. "See if you can hail the rest of phoenix." The soldier nodded, and his invisible pack reappeared as he swept it off his shoulders, plucking up that doll. He balanced the ventriloquist dummy on his knee. "Phoenix six, this is thunder two, phoenix --"

He was cut off by a voice from the chattering dummy. "Thunder two, this is Base Three. Phoenix six checked in eight minutes ago --"

__

Harry! Ron almost staggered. He was aliv-- he was all right.

"-- losses but all's well -- now stay _off_ the fucking radio! Don't strike until the signal. Lucius has six hundred hostages. Remember that -- and move _fast_."

Eight-hundred and thirty-nine actually. As head of Ministry Personnel, Ron knew that sort of thing. He and Percy had the honour of being some of Lucius' first captures when he took the Ministry.

They acknowledged and Harry clicked off. Ron stood dazed at word of his friend, who didn't know if he was dead or alive, or that he was right here, listening to him give orders as if he knew what he was doing. A lot changed in a year.

Then the man with the snake crest turned to the captain with an odd expression. "Radio -?"

The captain shrugged. "Muggle term."

Percy scraped along the dusty floor. Every motion took an effort of will, as he pulled himself up another step by his arms. Panted. Then dragged himself another few steps with a grunt. He gazed up at the next flight. And kept going.

It occurred to Draco that if the lift hit his pulley… that was it. With alacrity he started to drag himself up, rope whipping through his hands, slapping his legs, arms burning. He ascended as fast as he could. Cursed. It was at least ten broom lengths. He grit his teeth.

He swung past the open doorway. He was six, seven broom-lengths away from the pulley; the lift, which was so _agonizingly_ slow while you were waiting for it, ground down towards him, fast.

Draco's breath came in heavy pants -- he saw the lift, the pulley was still five, four broom lengths away, he wasn't going to make it, he was going to plummet –

--- an idea struck. He swore at himself. Drew his wand. Loosened his legs in the harness. And reversed gravity again. He landed on top of the lift and bounced, sprawled, clutching the swaying edge as something heavy and metal dug into his wrist. "_Ow!_"

His wand clattered away, fetched up against another metal ridge. He pulled his foot away from where it had barely missed the heavy grinding, squealing gears, and snatched up his wand. He quickly scrambled up to get out of the harness, then aimed at the pulley, only two broom-lengths above:

"_Incendio!_"

The pulley lit up and glowed red; snapped off, falling with a clatter-clank. His precious rope slithered like a pink and yellow snake behind it. The lift continued its ascent smoothly.

Draco sat on his hands and knees, breathing hard.

It was with a strange, almost poetic sense of déjà vu, that he passed the open door for the third time. Then he plunged into darkness.

Percy froze at the loud echoing boom. A door slamming above. Then footsteps. A slow tread, then clattering steps rapidly down the stairs in his direction. He tried to hold up his wand but was too weak. Defeated, he waited to be found.

The door squeaked open overhead. Then slammed shut with a hollow sound.

Percy let out a sigh.

"_Lumos!_"

Draco passed doorway after doorway and stood on top of the lift, holding the light from his wand up like a star. He balanced between ridges of metal with the huge, hungry wheel nerve-wrackingly close. Though this was according to plan. More or less.

The light slowly illuminated a ceiling with another protruding wheel, which approached like a steel wall. Three broom-lengths to go… two…

Draco gripped the wand, repeated the spell, and jumped as gravity churned with a sickening lurch. He dropped to the ceiling -- his knee gave a stab of pain -- and fell backward to his arse. Quickly, he rolled over to lie flat.

With a squeal and crunch, the lift ground to a stop, leaving Draco a narrow crawlspace. It took a moment to unfreeze and breathe evenly again, even though he'd known it would stop. It was all too likely Ron's Ministry schematics didn't tell the whole story.

He slid along the ceiling, and found the air-duct that Percy had spotted just outside his office mere weeks before (which, Draco had noted, was not on the schematics either). Draco peered through and then, disoriented, rolled onto his back on the ceiling so his eyes were at floor level and the world was right-side up. There were no boots, or any guards (his heart did a nervous thump at the thought "guard"), just a line of statues guarding the marble hall.

He unscrewed the grate easily enough, bone tired, and slowly squeezed through. Then he suddenly flailed, pin-wheeling his arms.

__

WHOMP!

He fell to the ceiling. He'd forgotten the gravity spell.

After a moment, Draco shook his head and groaned. He drew his wand, but paused, wide-eyed, as a column of robed guards in full battle gear turned the corner of the stairs below, and trampled directly underneath him.

He silently blessed ten centuries of Malfoy luck. The ceiling shook, dripping plaster on the troop below. But to Draco's relief, no one looked up.

Percy reached a landing. He'd discovered these were easiest to manage. He leaned over, and rolled, using his weight and momentum… one… two… _three_. Until he reached the next stretch of steps. At the top of the stair was a crack of light. And the sound of heavy boots. Many of them, passing on the other side. He held his breath. And waited.

They ran down the hall and dove aside from the hexes that the single guard fired at them from behind a column. Red, blue, something that splattered on the wall behind Ron -- who knew what it was -- and a yellow flash. They circled and had their quarry pinned down, trapped. The troop closed with feral intensity, leaving a deliberate opening in their line for the Death Eater guard to make a run for it.

An elegant plaque in front of the Death Eater blew off the wall. He lay flat, diving to the floor. Someone animated the letters, and they ripped loose from the board, spattering at him like intelligent shrapnel, following him as he rolled and threw up his cape, yelping in pain -- finally, he dove for the opening between Denny and Andrew. Four wands nailed him simultaneously. He twitched to the side, finishing his roll, then fell still. He left a pink smear on pale marble.

The lights flickered silently. The men ducked, while Ron froze. Out of nowhere, holes appeared in the walls, like Swiss cheese. "Get down!" Andrew yelled.

Ron staggered sideways, as a hole formed at Andrew's feet. Andrew's back arched as he fell through, and he grabbed the sides, looking up, panicked, as the edges crumbled away. He slid, and fell wordless.

Percy was supposed to have taken these protections down!

Ron crawled over, but the hole had sealed as suddenly as it had appeared. Ron looked around, stunned. All the holes were gone. The men felt along the cold marble floor desperately, but the captain shook his head and waved them onward. Ron remained on his knees, searching.

The captain touched Ron's arm. "If he's all right, he'll meet us later. If he's not, there's nothing we can do. Come on, kid." He clapped Ron's shoulder and picked him off the floor. "Let's pray that didn't raise the alarm."

After the last of the troop passed, Draco sat up, consciously ignoring various stinging complaints his body made at this. He gazed along the curved plaster of the bucket-like floor, which was really the ceiling, and glanced at the real floor above. His father had redecorated with black lacquered fixtures and pale green mosaic tile.

Enormous white statues lined the halls to the old Minister of Magic's office. Their searching blank eyes scanned the floor, but ignored him as no more than a bug on the ceiling. It occurred to Draco as he stood and dusted himself off, that if this was so easy, the Ministry must have had a fatal weakness for centuries. But it would be a relief to simply be able to walk the rest of the way. He stepped around a chandelier, which dangled straight up, defying gravity from his point of view.

Draco kept a weather eye on the floor above him, and caught a slight movement there, with a sinking feeling.

The fire escape door to the left of Percy's "executive" office squeaked and cracked open an inch. A shaky hand reached around the doorjamb. Another joined it; then two skinny pale arms hauled a red-headed form through to slump in heap on the floor.

Percy Weasley.

Weasley started to crawl on his stomach, weak, dragging himself on his elbows.

There was no sign of blood. His legs squirmed, kicked behind him. So they could move. There was nothing wrong with him. Draco peered, squinting in confusion at the figure crawling along the floor above.

The statues turned in Weasley's direction slightly, heads moving deliberate and slow. Then, recognising the Lord of Magic's secretary in whatever condition, they returned to their former positions.

Draco sighed. Oh, hell. He had to give up his advantage -- thanks for nothing, Weasley. He walked up to a chandelier and held onto it as he reversed the spell, shutting his eyes. It swung with a clinking jangle, and he dropped lightly to the floor with a slight wince. The chandelier swayed musically as Weasley started and wearily looked around. The lights danced and wavered about them. Draco crouched, wand at ready, but no guards appeared.

Percy lifted his chin, eyes heavy lidded and tired. He gazed all the way up from Draco's foot to his face.

"Oh, sweet Isabelle. Draco, what happened to you?" Percy looked at him blearily, eyes blinking with exhaustion. "You look like you've been beaten." Draco's hand unconsciously went to his nose. He let it drop.

"_You're_ what happened to me, Weasley. Where have you been?"

"This is the last flight," he said wearily.

"Get off the floor if your legs aren't broken."

"I can't."

Then it dawned on Draco.

No wonder Lucius had trusted Weasley.

Draco wondered when he had put the spell on him, and just what exactly it covered. He wrinkled his nose, dried blood cracking. "There's a Geas on you, Weasley. You can't directly act against my father. You shouldn't even be able to move. Not if it's against his interests."

"Really, Malfoy? Do you think so? I mean, it's not as though I have a _N.E.W.T._ in these or anything!" Percy dragged forward another few inches. Pathetic. "After all I've done for him, he never trusted me…."

Draco gave him a strange look. Obviously Lucius was right not to trust him. Then he realised with a jolt. Shit. _Ron._

"So. None of the set spells are down. Not even one?"

Percy bit his lip and shook his head.

Draco looked down at his current Least Favourite Person in the World, and decided there was nothing for it. He bent and pulled Percy up, draping his arm over his shoulder. "Then tell me where this grounding station of his is."

Percy opened his mouth, and nothing but a squeak came out, Geas in full force. He squeezed his eyes shut, then managed to croak out: "Left..[.] turn…."

Percy's feet dragged as they stumbled forward between the statues to a side passage, happily out of that dangerous, exposed hall. Draco puzzled at him as he leaned against a doorjamb to rearrange his grip; Percy was nearly as tall as Ron. "You shouldn't be able to act against my father at all."

"Against him? What sort of person do you think I am? I'm not disloyal." Draco nearly dropped him, but Percy went on, "Have you any idea who his heir is?"

Draco froze for a moment, jaw tight. "I'm fully aware of being disinherited."

He unconsciously looked down at the Dark Mark, buried under his sleeve. _"Your son has failed us, Lucius. Suggest to us a suitable punishment_._"_ Then the laughing idea from the other Death Eaters, that Draco should earn his way from then on. The Dark Lord had taken everything.

Pure-bloods didn't do this.

"The _Dark Lord_ is the new Malfoy heir! Anyone with a grain of political sense knows he'll kill Lucius the moment he doesn't need him any more," Percy said in an urgent voice. "So Dumbledore has to win."

Draco paused, realising then that Percy didn't know what Draco intended to do, his part of the plan. And Ron, who'd asked Draco not to mention it, must have deliberately never told Percy. He knew his brother. What euphemism had Ron given?

"I doubt Lucius would agree with you," Draco said finally, staring straight ahead as he and Percy stumbled a few more steps. The statues turned towards them and followed their progress, turning away as they passed.

"Lucius doesn't know what's best for him. _I_ do."

Draco glanced over suddenly at this skinny, imperious man, shocked at his arrogance. It was just a rationalization. Wasn't it?

But Percy's mouth was set in that stubborn Weasley line, and the Geas was breaking, irrefutable proof that -- true or not -- Weasley believed it. What happened to the lickspittle that had grovelled at his father's boots for the last year, hung on his every word? _Lucius doesn't get Percy. He's loyal_, Ron had said,_ but Percy's got his own rules._ Draco had assumed that Ron had meant loyal to Dumbledore, a sweet brother's sentimentality. But there was nothing so dangerous as a righteous man.

Draco decided that Lucius should have killed Percy a long time ago.

The Death Eater guard lurched, puppet-like, through the doorway. In a quick motion, his head was neatly sliced off by something unseen. Bloodless, it fell to his feet with a thump and rolled down a stair, fetching up against a thick wooden moulding. But the body kept jerking forward, step by step.

Lucky for him he was already dead, Ron thought.

Xavier lowered his wand, and the Death Eater tumbled over in a heap. "Who was it who said this level was secure?" he whispered. "Fuckin' snakes… can't do anything right."

Ron had taken Andrew's place in the point guard, and blinked at him. They didn't need to be fighting each other. He shook his head. "This is Lucius' work. It's just all supposed to be shut down." Something must've happened. A painful doubt gnawed at Ron, though he was sure that that hadn't been Percy in the dungeons. It couldn't have been.

Behind him he heard: "Looks like we know what happened to the rest of phoenix six." Just beyond the door, Ron spotted the bodies of four men, sliced to ribbons and tossed aside like dolls, their familiar uniforms and bloodstained phoenix badges ripped. His jaw tightened. The rest of the team approached behind them, silent. Not looking each other, they turned to business at hand, scanning the walls for magical bricks and triggers that could explain what they were up against.

The blond kid indicated the wide doorway to what had once been Jurisprudence Hall, but was now part of a series of protections below the Ministry, and whispered:

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?"

"No idea. Just that there's no password or any way around it," Ron explained. Dammit! Where was Percy?

"None? We'll just see about that." Xavier said, his black eyes flashing. Weirdly, he'd streaked his face in the Death Eater's blood after they'd lost Andrew. It flaked off in little bits as he spoke.

He produced a double-ended wand, appearing out of that invisible pack. He held it out towards Ron. "You know how to use one of these?"

That was a soldier's weapon. Ron's eyes bugged out.

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, sure." In theory at least.

"Oi. He'll kill us all!" That was Denny behind him, grinning. Ron flipped him the bird.

Xavier caught his hesitancy and spun it in his hands as he pulled it away. "Practice then." He handed it back to Ron. "You'll need the extra speed."

The captain noted the exchange without comment, except to add, "Practice _away_ from the rest of us. And make sure it's clear behind you, son." He paused and gave Ron a sharp glance. "What was your name again?"

"Weasley, sir."

"Weasley," he repeated, then jerked his head at Xavier. "See what you can do about that beast, whatever it is."

Xavier simply nodded and stepped forward, his hands circling in an elaborate conjuring as his lips moved. Everyone had called him a "specialist," but Ron was yet to know just what he was a specialist _in_.

Denny tapped his shoulder. "Psst. Ron." Ron glanced back. Denny whispered, "That was Andrew's." He indicated the wand, eyes serious. Ron clutched it a little tighter, looking at Xavier as everyone spread out along the wall to either side of the door, ready. Two men guarded the opposite entrance.

Xavier's eyes narrowed and, with his teeth bared, he pointed his wand at the doorway. A jet of smoke boiled out the end, sinking slightly. It billowed out into the courtroom beyond. The smoke was cut through in long sweeps just inside the door, but it began filling the room, turning a sickly green as it settled gently, like a morning mist.

Two of the other soldiers let loose will o' the wisps, which Ron saw lighting up the fog in sparkling, fascinating colours before he quickly looked away. They would draw anything living into the fume --including him. The men drew out mirrors to watch what was happening without being lured in themselves.

There was a howl, and Ron glanced up as a will o' the wisp winked out. The long sweeps that cut through the smoke suddenly took on a claw-like look to his mind. They heard a loud thump.

Ron stepped forward, but the blond kid grabbed him. "No."

Something sliced through the fog again. In long sweeps. Right in front of the door.

"Okay. Mineral then."

"Something was back there."

Ron thought of a certain kitchen, and scones, and said, "Hang on." He drew the Death Eater's wand and did one of his mother's most basic charms. Someone behind him chuckled as he obviously recognised it, but Ron aimed a dusting of flour at those sweeps.

Sure enough, several invisible thin knives, shaped like a headman's axes, were revealed, thinly dusted with flour. They sliced in and out of the wall. Two up high, one low.

Plenty of space in between. The fourth blade was broken, a stub of a handle flapping helplessly in the fog.

"Hey," Xavier laughed, pulling back his greasy hair and grinning at Ron, "someone kiss the cook!"

The captain nodded. "Good work. Let's clear this, and move out."

Several large fans were conjured to blow away the smoke, and the colourful will o' the wisps returned to be reabsorbed into various wands. One by one, the men dove through, tumbling between the knives. Ron brought up the rear, leaping the half-visible blade.

He gagged on the poisonous fumes. "This is putrid stuff, Xavier. I'm impressed."

"It ain't nowhere near as bad as his farts," someone commented, and the troop chuckled as they spread out again.

The blond kid took an experimental sniff, and made a face, cutting his eyes at Xavier. "Actually… this smells rather familiar…."

"All right then, I'll save some for all of you later," Xavier promised.

With nods and half-whispered commands, Percy directed Draco through the maze of twisting halls. They passed dusty offices and sealed doors; most of Lucius' executive staff was restricted to the floor below. "Careful," Weasley warned him, and Draco caught himself just in time, as he stepped right through the floor.

They stood in the midst of the hallway, with the floor up to their calves, the mosaic surface rippling about them like the disturbed surface of a pond. He edged his foot forward. There was a sort of stairway. Sliding his foot along the step, he felt the edges ahead blindly. They inched downward, step by step.

As Draco's head dipped below the bobbing surface of the floor, he found they were in a panelled mahogany stair, warmly lit: the Ministry's old decor. Above them the green tile floor wavered and fell still.

He winced at Weasley's weight as they descended, his knee stinging, but he refused to show it in front of him. At the bottom of the stair, Percy hesitated.

He adjusted Percy across his shoulder. "Hurry up, Weasley. I don't consider this cosy."

Percy gave him a disdainful look. "Malfoy, trust me, I don't share your proclivities."

"Yes, well, I never developed a taste for fat Mudbloods. What was her name again?" Weasley's face tuned pleasantly red, though he didn't rise to the bait.

Draco cut the next turn rather closely, clipping Percy's shoulder on the moulding. "Whoops. So sorry," he said remorselessly.

Weasley led them to what looked like a dead-end hall, and motioned for Draco to stop, halfway down. He prodded at a small knot in the wood of the panelled wall. It came loose like a cork in a bottle.

They stood back as the hole expanded to reveal a round darkened room. There were eyes painted on, covering every inch of the walls. As Draco watched, the Ministry guardians blinked simultaneously. Percy gave the password; then they continued calmly staring. In front of those eyes, on layer after layer of dusty glass shelves, were tiny models of trolls, knives, creatures, and hundreds of glimmering lights. There was a chair set in the centre of the circle of the room.

It was a strange place for a guardian room, Draco thought. It should have been kept near the Minister of Magic's office. Certainly his father would have moved it closer, if it weren't there from the beginning. He trusted no one. Draco puzzled over it, but every possible explanation made even less sense.

Weasley could only drop the "permanent" spells that were cast and anchored here. But it might be enough.

Draco turned to leave.

"Malfoy." Draco glanced back. Those eyes blinked disconcertingly again. "With the Geas, I can't tell you that there's a private passage from my office that leads to just outside the Lord of Magic's office. Nor that the password is _Raspberry Tart_.

"But give me fifteen minutes and you'll be able to use it."

Draco couldn't help but smirk at that. And the password. Weasley was getting good at working around his Geas. He gave Percy a salute he hadn't intended to give, and began to leave.

"And… Draco." Draco turned around again impatiently. Percy slumped against the doorway, drawing his wand in a graceful arc. "Try to remember which side you're on."

As he left, he glanced back to see Weasley collapsed into the chair, staring up at the ceiling as he muttered spells under his breath. Little lights around him went out, one by one, snuffed like candle-flame.

He doubled back to Percy's office, and located the passage easily. From there Draco found himself outside the Minister of Magic's tall arching windows, surrounded by starlight. He was unable to see the ground he was walking on, though he could feel the slick mirror-like surface under his feet. He'd always thought his father was teasing when he said they lit the Ministry windows "with mirrors"; but it appeared to be literally true. The black sky and stars seemed to stretch into infinity all around him, and Draco kept his hand on the wall of windows, as if he might fall off the edge of the world, or go spinning off into nothingness.

Inside, he saw a movement, and quickly dipped below the carved sill of an elegant cathedral-like window. Then he peered cautiously over the edge.

Lucius stood in the dim glow of a single lamp behind the "Lord" of Magic's long polished desk, the imposing chair pushed back. There was a tiny model of the Ministry, no more than a few hands high, in front of him. He was scowling at it, as various portions slowly went dark.

Draco gazed down the long row of windows, and found no end to them, nor any door. Irritated at the delay, he circled his wand at a portion of glass behind a sweeping curtain, drawing a thin invisible line. He whispered, "_Sussuratus_." The section he'd carved out returned to its natural state and collapsed in a _shush_ of sparkling sand. Carefully, quietly, he crunched on sand as he stepped through the window to stand no more than a few meters behind his father.

Lucius' blond head bobbed this way and that; he'd torn the fastening out of his hair, as he did when he was frustrated, and it fell forward over his shoulders. It had been eight months since Draco last saw him. He looked much the same as he always had while searching through books in the Manor, or working on a particularly difficult spell.

Draco's mouth made a thin line.

This was also the man who'd sent him to the dungeons, and tried to -- had people do _that_ to him in the Arena. This was the _traitor_ to the Malfoy blood, who had willingly stripped him of his birthright. It wasn't a question of wealth. It was a question of blood. It was a matter of _who they were_. The old ways. One simply didn't choose outsiders over one's own blood, and only a Mudblood Dark Lord would have ever asked. It had sent shock waves through the greater families -- and Draco had made sure they all knew. He had no doubt their support had silently shifted away from the Dark Lord, even if they didn't help Dumbledore.

Tom Riddle… Draco squirmed at his boldness of calling him that, even just in his mind… understood nothing of pure-blood tradition. But Lucius knew better; he had taught Draco himself.

Now, there was only one way it could be rectified.

Draco steeled himself, and silently crept forward, sliding his hand into his pocket and loosening the weapon in its sheath. Lucius was a powerful wizard, but there were certain avenues of attack he never considered.

"Draco," Lucius said, leaning over his desk, without even looking up. Draco heart stopped. "Do come in, please. Your timing is as ever, poor; but I have been expecting you.

"And please fix that window behind you. There is a draught."

Ignoring the command, Draco stepped out from behind the curtains, feeling both childish and petulant. He forced a tight smile. "Hello, father."

"What is it?" Xavier whispered as Ron stopped.

"I don't get it. The poison moat's supposed to start here."

Denny shrugged. "Looks like an ordinary storage room to me."

Eleven Lumos spells lit the darkness as bright as day. But they found nothing more than dusty boxes and file cabinets.

"This is odd."

"I'm not looking this gift horse in the mouth," Xavier snorted.

"That's really strange… unless --" Ron brightened and slapped his forehead. "-- oh hell, he's done it!"

"What are you saying?"

"Percy -- my brother -- he's dropped all the defences!"

Greatly cheered, they motioned the rest of the team forward.

"So. You have come to challenge me for control of the Manor and leadership of the family." Lucius glanced up and then peered more closely at Draco; his eyes flickered and narrowed as he took in Draco's battered form. There seemed to be a glint of humour in his eyes, as he enunciated carefully, "Ah. Perhaps for next time you should consider making an appointment."

Draco shifted off his complaining knee, self-consciously aware of his bloodied nose; a quick glance down revealed soot-streaked hands and clothes filthy with dust. He restrained the impulse to brush himself off. Lucius smirked and prodded the model in front of him with his wand. Lights flared on in one of the levels. They were quickly tamped down. Lucius frowned at it.

"It seems I already have one," Draco said, with bravado he didn't feel, trying not to sound surprised. His father always made him feel like a truant first year who'd tracked mud on the carpet.

Lucius tapped his fingers on the desk, watching the model. He clucked his tongue. His forehead had a slight crease, as if he had a persistent headache. "Draco, you are so sadly transparent. You have been here a total of eight months, and yet you didn't come to see your 'beloved father' even once. Did it never occur to you to at least pretend familial duty?"

Draco kept his expression carefully blank as his father had taught him, eyes coolly assessing. He shifted his feet as if merely finding a more comfortable position. Inside however, he squirmed, pitifully aware he had made a big -- probably critical -- mistake. Again. Truth was, it hadn't occurred to him to deceive his father. He didn't think he could do it.

"That has always been your problem, your Achilles heel. You've always lacked… subtlety. And there is nothing one can do to teach you depth, planning, or self-restraint." Lucius gave a deep sigh of genuine disappointment. His shoulders sank in eloquent frustration. "I've certainly done my best. But it has been like pouring fine wine into a shallow tin cup: the result is tainted. I've been unable to hand on to you the Malfoy tradition."

"Tradition?" Draco spat. "You've shown no concern for that! You gave it all away!" The word _traitor_ stuck in his throat. He couldn't quite call his own father that, not to his face.

"Draco." Lucius shook his head sadly, turning to him with calm, cold eyes. "I gave away nothing. The Dark Lord does not want the Manor or the Malfoy fortune. It was simply a test of character. Of you and your loyalty.

"If you had kept your oath to Him, if you hadn't been so proud -- everything would have been returned to you. Tenfold." Lucius' eyes settled unblinkingly on Draco, as if to impress the lesson on him. Behind him, several layers of the little model went slowly dark. "The greater the test, the larger the reward. Few have the opportunity to see their character, to learn the true extent of their capacity. But you threw His gift to you away."

Lucius folded his hands, gently. "It was suggested that you weren't really His, that you had only taken the Mark because you were my son, and a Malfoy. I assured him that this wasn't true. But you failed me, Draco, as much as you failed the Dark Lord. It took me a long time to regain my standing in the circle afterwards.

"I am deeply disappointed in you."

Draco swallowed and scuffed his foot. It was insane enough to be plausible. Draco gathered himself, and said with utmost sarcasm, "I'm sorry that I didn't trust the Dark Lord's infamous 'generosity.'"

"It was not generosity, Draco," Lucius said with asperity, "it was a test of mettle. One that I passed, and you failed. Spectacularly."

"Glad to see I was impressive." Draco winced, wishing he hadn't opened his mouth just then. He didn't care about impressing them!

"Hardly." Lucius snorted derisively. "You are incapable of discerning the mind of the Dark Lord. He said that there was nothing I could have done to change your inferior nature, that you were a mere thug in silk swaddling clothes."

Lucius gave Draco and his drawn wand a piercing glance, before he returned to the model. "I see now just how true that is."

He turned his back on Draco. Several levels of the model gradually re-lit under his efforts.

"_Supinatrea!_"

Lucius jerked his fist up, sharply blocking the spell. It sizzled briefly on the floor at his feet where he gazed at it. He drew himself up and turned towards his son.

"Maybe subtlety is over-rated," said Draco, shifting to the balls of his feet. It sounded hollow even in his ears. He would give anything to be like his father.

"Draco. I really haven't time for this right now. You've failed to notice that there is a war on at the moment."

"_Excoresco!_"

It was blocked just as easily. Draco backed away slightly. His father had taught him everything he knew. There was nothing Lucius couldn't counter. But he was both younger and faster.

"I've no wish to harm you," his father explained, not bothering to raise his weapon. "There may yet be something I can salvage, perhaps when you're older, more mature --"

Draco twirled his wand with a flourish. "You can always concede then."

Lucius sighed and walked around his desk, adjusting his grip on his wand tiredly. "I fear I must decline your gracious offer to run the family, and ruin centuries of our ancestors' work. You do not deserve it. _Constricto!_"

Draco sprang aside as the threads skated across the floor.

It was a simple entangling charm, designed to tie him up in the corner like a child. Draco was furious. "_Quaissis!_"

The spell he returned was deadly.

It left a smoking hole in the curtains. Lucius tamped it down with a look.

"Try to keep your temper, Draco," he said calmly. "Those curtains were expensive. Remember. Duelling is an art for a calm mind."

"This isn't an exercise!" Draco spat at him.

"Temper, temper." Lucius chuckled. "Your excitability is why Potter always beat you."

"_Castrato! Quaissis! Dementus!_" Draco fired spell after spell, not caring about form, precision, style or anything! Lucius slid aside with a smooth gesture, without attempting to counter them as they missed wildly.

"_Contamium!_" At this, Lucius brought up a flaming shield. The disease spell twisted and burned in the air, dissipating in a flash of black smoke.

Breathing hard and slightly dizzy, Draco brought his wand back around for another stroke. "_Phantasma!_"

The last, too soon after such a barrage, fluttered like a moth and fell to the floor halfway between them.

Lucius pointed his wand and said simply, "_Igneus Fervesco_." Draco screamed and clutched at his knee.

"_Pondrus Corporealus_." He flattened Draco like paper to a pillar, his wand arm pinned by an overwhelming weight. "_Antipodiea Pertingo_." Lengthened and strapped his belt around the pillar, trapping his hands. Draco struggled.

"_Finite Incantatem._" And the spell that had flattened Draco released. Draco flopped forward, vomiting as his stomach was released.

"So predictable." Lucius smiled fondly at his son. "You must learn to ignore physical discomfort and distraction. But that was an interesting exercise: you do seem to have improved." He reached over and plucked the ebony wand from Draco's hand, and used it to clean the floor. "We'll have to do this again sometime… once you're an adult."

Lucius stood, hands on his hips, considering Draco for a moment as if he'd shown some sign of hope. He turned to the nearly dark model. "For now I have work to do. After this is over, I'll return you to your rooms, and, as a gesture of goodwill I may even allow you to keep your catamite -- _if_ you show some effort to regain my trust. You might begin by telling me how you came by this wand." He set it on his desk with a soft click.

Lucius dragged the pillar Draco was tied to closer, the stone scraping along the floor with the heavy grating sound of a gristmill. The model was nearly dark.

"It appears, unfortunately, that our other Weasley has betrayed me. Or is attempting to do so," Lucius growled. "Let it be a lesson to you, Draco: never trust your servants, no matter how devoted they might seem, no matter your precautions.

"I think I'll hang Percy Weasley as a public example. He's not popular; the Ministry may very well cheer his demise."

The model surged with light.

The room behind them flooded with a thick viscous liquid. Boxes steamed and burst into flame as the liquid touched them, and Ron shouted the alarm. The moat was back! They scrambled up the stairs, marching order abandoned, and it was Denny in the lead who banged his head on the trapdoor that suddenly appeared over the stairs. They were sealed in!

Then it vanished. And the poison began to recede again.

Confused, they quickly ascended, hands raised over their heads in case the trapdoor reappeared.

"If your brother's doing this," said the blond kid, "I'm not sure it's much better!"

"Something's going on," Ron said doubtfully.

"Let's get out of here; clear as many traps as you can while they're down," ordered the captain. "And check in with Base, 'radio' or not."

Draco glared mutinously at his father's back, while Lucius murmured over the glittering toy Ministry as if the fate of the world depended on it, scowling as the little floors dimmed, then re-lit. Draco cut his eyes at the belt binding him; he had tied Draco carelessly, with his hands to either side of his hips. Draco eased the Muggle knife out of his pocket.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Draco startled, nearly dropping the knife.

"Sir?" A guard entered, brought up short by the sight of Draco.

Draco smiled wanly at him from behind Lucius. He edged the knife behind his thigh.

"We have a guest of honour this evening," Lucius told him in an amused voice. "I trust you'll see to the security on the windows. Later." He seemed pleased Draco had foiled his men.

"Yes, sir." Draco let out a sigh of relief as the guard's attention returned to Lucius. He began to quietly saw at the leather of his belt while his father was distracted, grateful it was expensive and therefore butter soft. His eyes flicked down to the growing notch.

"Sir. We have intruders in the lower dungeons, and a hostage situation in the Mudblood barracks, south wing. Two guards have been taken prisoner. They're making demands."

Draco smirked, and risked sawing a little more vigorously. He was rather disappointed with the pure-blood prisoners actually, that they hadn't made as much of a showing. Though, true, they were more comfortable.

Lucius snarled, slamming his palm on his desk. "I've been far too patient with them. How many are there?"

"In those barracks? About two hundred, sir."

The knife slipped as it bit into a hole. Draco carefully looked down; he was halfway through.

"Destroy the barracks then." Draco's hand paused. Normally he didn't care one way or the other about Mudbloods, but he knew some of those people. That's where he bought his drugs. And the wand. Not to mention it was how he had smuggled out Ron's maps. "The world is infested with Mudbloods; there are always more."

Feeling grim, Draco hissed as he accidentally cut himself. His father cast him a casual glance, and Draco silently panicked. The knife was in plain sight from this angle. He looked Lucius straight in the eyes, defiantly, remembering his Death Eater training: if caught with contraband, capture your witness' eyes. They will look at you and not the illegal item you're holding.

"Sir? The defensive magicks are acting up a bit…."

Lucius turned back to his guard.

"Those I have well in hand," Lucius cut him off, with gritted teeth. "But I'll need you to assemble the entire guard into an assault team. I suspect that our intruders are a larger group than it appears."

"And what about you, sir?"

Draco had only a thin thread of leather left. Elated, he held off on cutting that final piece. It wouldn't do for that guardsman to notice the belt springing loose.

"I have not been caught unprepared," Lucius purred.

Ron's team crept into position.

"You're late," said someone with a fox badge. Another captain.

"Everyone is," their captain replied.

And he smiled.

Thunder boomed overhead. This time the sound came from _inside_ the Ministry. The blond kid turned to Ron, as Ron drew Andrew's wand, his blue eyes wild in the dark. "Just watch behind you when use that thing."

Then soundless lightning flashed, licking the ceiling. Their signal.

The guard saluted and left, boots clicking, echoing on the marble floor. It took agonizingly long for him to cross the wide office. Draco mentally measured the distance between himself and his father, wishing he had dragged the pillar closer. It was just a little too far for comfort --slightly more than a broom length. The door hissed as it shut, and then finally clicked.

Draco's wand was on the furthest edge of the desk, beyond Lucius. He wouldn't be able to get to it before Lucius drew his.

Lucius bent closer to the model, wand flicking sharply, teasing out more lights. He was slightly off-balance.

__

Snick.

Draco sprang and felt his father sprawl on the desk with a grunt and a _thump_, the desk scraped forward with a whine… and Draco held the knife to a bared throat. He pulled Lucius' head back by the hair, pinning his shoulders to the desk, breathing hard.

Draco said softly, "Didn't think of everything, did you?"

His father's cheek was crushed against the desk. His eyes slid down, trying to look at the knife that indented his jugular with an angry crease.

"You always underestimate the Mudbloods. And their methods," Draco breathed through gritted teeth.

Lucius swallowed. The motion felt weak and vulnerable under Draco's hand. "I thought you had… better breeding…." he coughed.

Draco let the knife bite into his neck, deepening the crease, gradually. He felt a slow drop of blood slide down his face; his nose was bleeding again.

That blue eye flicked up to Draco's face. Lucius gasped in a low voice, "You don't… you don't have it in you… or I'd already be dead."

His elbow came up, sharp, into Draco's stomach. The knife bit and drew blood from his sudden movement.

Draco held on, bearing down on his father's shoulders, mindful of his father's reminder to ignore pain, though inwardly he moaned. Blood welled up and trickled down Lucius' neck, and it was that shock, the realisation that loosened the knife in Draco's hand; the knife slipped, just a little --

-- then Draco's leg was jerked out from under him. Lucius rolled sideways, a long red line striping his throat, and Draco found himself flat on his back, staring up at his father's drawn wand. Lucius' eyes blazed.

He asked that question, the one Draco had heard so often as a child, in his softest, most dangerous voice:

"Do you want your punishment now, or later?"

Now had always been the better option. Else his father had time to get creative, and to remember other things Draco had done wrong besides. Draco swallowed, staring into his father's outraged eyes. "How does 'never' sound?"

He dodged sideways but Lucius spun with him -- he knew Draco too well. A numbing shock shivered down Draco's back, spreading like a poison sheet of ice.

A paralysis hex.

Draco dropped, his shoulder bouncing off the floor as he sprawled at Lucius' feet.

Time slowed. Draco's head had cracked to the floor, the sound curiously muffled and his body as light as air, slower than floating underwater. The shock echoed dimly. It didn't seem to hurt too much. Draco frowned, his eyelashes fluttering inches from a cold marble. Vaguely it seemed that he shouldn't feel the cold. Or blink. Or anything. Draco numbly realised something was wrong… was wrong with the spell.

Lucius had returned his attention to the model. He saw his father's shiny black boots by his face.

Sound was dimmed. Draco pushed up onto his hands and knees, vaguely aware that he shouldn't be able to do that either, then rose, staggering. Time moved in slow motion. His father was there; that stupid model was everything to him. He had turned his back on Draco. Again. The model was nearly dark once more.

Draco lurched across the desk, and then slapped the offending toy away. His mouth moved, but the words were strangely muffled and far away, "Damn it, pay attention to _me!_"

The little Ministry crashed to the floor, almost silent. It snapped like balsa wood.

Lucius turned to him, reacting slowly it seemed, his face rigid with shock. His image blurred with the movement. "You complete and utter fool!" His voice sounded slurred, so strange for him... "Have you any idea what you've done?!"

Draco found that he'd grasped his wand from the desk and was holding it out shakily. His voice sounded small and far away. "No, father. You're the fool. Don't you know I'm _not on your side._"

Lucius' teeth were bared, eyes livid, wand aimed. He began, "_Avada --!_"

Draco bubbled with laughter feeling strangely light. "You can't do it. Or I'd be dead a hundred times."

Lucius' wandtip in front of Draco's nose shuddered, then wavered as he shook with rage. Draco didn't even think to cast a spell, though nothing came to mind anyway.

Then the wand lowered, and Lucius withdrew. His gaze fell on the model shattered at his feet.

He turned, and left, his robes billowing behind him as he skipped a step, almost, but not quite at a run.

Xavier and Ron held their positions behind the dead troll, firing spells over it as they had a chance. Ron had switched to the Death Eater's wand, since his aim was still terrible with Andrew's. Xavier dodged a flash of red that was probably from their side in the chaos. It hit the troll and sprouted something green and waving that quickly slumped, unable to survive in the troll's flesh.

In the battlefield in front of them, their people circled like black dots, dodging spells and the cratered floor. Trolls flailed about, disorganised and mad with fear -- they forgot they could die, until they saw one of their own down.

They'd herded most of the remaining ones into the Atrium. The paving stones were melted by alchemic magic. Overhead, wizards on brooms dove in tight formation. A sticky ochre substance splattered on the ground below. A troll went down in a deafening howl to Ron's left, stamping its feet.

Suddenly, the room glowed bright with green flashes. The fireplaces all around them lit up. The Floo network had been reconnected! Masked Death Eater troops poured through; in the smoke Ron couldn't see how many.

There was a warning shout. Then green light, and Ron fell back with the rest of the line as a Death Eater jumped the troll's leg. Ron sprawled backwards over something, another spell went over his head. The Death Eater was caught by some of that sticky ochre fluid and he tumbled forward, writhing and squirming helplessly.

Ron struggled free and looked at what he'd fallen over. The man had a phoenix badge, but he wasn't getting up again. Seeing the rest of the men gone, Ron backed away and followed the shouts to find his team.

Draco was blearily aware of the fact that his father was getting away. He staggered up to follow. The world shook, and Draco slipped to his knees. There was a dull blinding pain. The pieces of the model in front of him bounced like dancing bones, and the pillar his father had moved crashed to the ground behind. Draco pushed himself back up off the floor.

In the hallway, he turned left on a wild guess. The walls appeared and disappeared in front of him like hallucinations. He was surrounded by the ghost images, aware, vaguely, that they could materialize, splinching him irretrievably. He rushed through them anyway.

He staggered, flung against a wall, as something made the ground shake, and didn't know where he was going. But he caught a glimpse of the flutter of a black robe that swept around the corner and lurched forward after it. The wall that he was leaning on faded out, and he fell through it into a neatly organised office. His knee gave a distant, miserable complaint, and his mind sharpened and cleared. Mahogany and brass décor. That was wrong somehow.

Draco bit his lip and dashed through that wall again, before it rematerialised and he lost that disappearing glimpse of his father.

Ron was getting better with Andrew's wand. He spun it as spells shot out of both ends. His aim was still terrible, but with this many targets it didn't matter -- he'd get something. He'd lost sight of his team in the press, but had joined phoenix team where they were pinned down.

The green lights lit up all around them again. Ron froze, glancing at the men who were tiredly fighting. The wizards on the brooms were down.

There was a roaring sound like a Quidditch game. Then people in yellow, red and blue robes came pouring through. At the same time, the Ministry shook as if hit by a giant's fist. Then it rumbled again, and again, in a series of blasts. The room filled with colourful robes, flooding the battle.

The newcomers grabbed several of the Death Eaters and dragged them to the floor. Then one of the red robes went down, with a single spell. The others scattered like pigeons.

It took Ron a moment to realise -- these people were all unarmed! They were gonna be slaughtered!

Ron strode forward as the other men fought with renewed vigour. He readied his wand, but couldn't get a clear shot in the swirling, colourful crowd. Death Eaters slid behind this new cover, starting to escape, aiming spells from behind their human shields.

"Get these civilians out of here!" someone bellowed. "Get them out, God _damn it!_ Who's responsible for this!?"

As the last trickle of prisoners stepped out of the fireplaces, a familiar red head appeared. Ron ignored everyone and everything in the confused battle and ran for Percy. He was alive.

"I did it! I did it!" Percy said, ecstatic, grabbing Ron, oblivious to the chaos around him. "It fought me, back and forth -- and then suddenly I overwhelmed it. It completely collapsed!" He punched the air. "More than just the defensive spells came down! Everything!"

"YOU!" A commander turned on Percy approaching with a heavy tread, his face florid. "Is this your doing?!"

"YES! Yes, sir!" he said brightly.

"Then _get them out of here!_"

Percy nodded, and snatched at the blue sleeve of the ex-prisoner nearest him. The woman turned, surprised, and Percy waved her forward with a broad gesture. "Let's go! Everyone! Follow me! TO FREEDOM!"

The confused crowd buzzed and surged around him, roaring and unintelligible. Ron saw banners ripped off the wall, while others held up Death Eater masks, flailing them triumphantly. Percy was lifted up -- a sitting duck! -- onto someone's shoulders, and the crowd cheered and swelled.

"Where the fuck does he think he's going?" Denny stared after him, puzzled.

Ron said, "I don't think he knows. Lead him, will you? Show them the way out?"

Denny glanced about for his commander, who was nowhere to be seen, then nodded sharply to Ron.

As Draco's mind starting working again, all the aches, pains and little injuries came rushing back, tenfold. His knee burned fiercely, his nose felt like putty, and his body was on pins and needles all over, the last trace of his father's spell. He whimpered but he threw himself headlong down the hall, which buzzed and flashed in multi-colours. Elegant Victorian furniture… brass lamps… appeared, then turned hazy, and disappeared in his way as he swam through it.

Music suddenly blared from an office up ahead. The Wizarding Wireless Network. Someone must have left it on a year ago, during the siege, listening desperately for the news before they fled. Or were captured.

The doorway sealed in front of him. Then a new hall, decorated in all the wrong colours, more brass and wood grain, appeared to his left. It was certainly the wrong direction. The way his father had followed might not even exist any more.

Draco stopped, spinning around in the hallway, hopeless. He didn't know which way to go, and didn't really know why he was chasing him, except that he was getting away. And he had a job to do, didn't he? Draco felt so tired at the thought.

He stood stock-still and stopped looking around. He hadn't been thinking. Of course!

He ran back towards Percy's office and found the narrow hall. He turned left, then right -- yes, naturally this hadn't changed. At a run he retraced the steps he and Percy had taken, oh, an age ago.

There was no floor to sink through now, the green tile was gone; but the stairs were there, plain as day.

As he turned the corner, at the end of the dead-end hall there was a familiar blond head. The set of Lucius' shoulders was quietly determined. But he had ignored the knot in the wall, however. Instead, he had his hand on a closet door.

Lucius turned at the sound of Draco's footsteps. Draco stopped.

An ironic smile crooked the corner of Lucius' mouth and the line of his shoulder softened. He breathed a slight laugh. "You are a fool, Draco. But you have never been stupid."

He opened the panelled door. In a wave of disorientation, the room around them blurred and chang-- room?

It was the Minister of Magic's office. Not a hallway. Right where he'd started. But the pillar was back where it belonged; there was no sign of the shattered model. The long black desk was in nearly the same place, but now mahogany. And the little lamp was brass. Pallid moonlight tinted the sweeping burgundy curtains.

The other office had been a fake, a dummy. Lucius had used the Miasma Curse. His father -- the idea was staggering, the amount of effort and time it must have taken -- had cursed the _entire_ Ministry with it, rearranging halls and offices to suit him. But this was the real seat of Lucius' power, carefully hidden, the model merely a way to access this room.

His father had his hand on another, identical closet door, and Draco had the sudden sense that he'd better stop whatever it was he was doing, or he would regret it.

Draco drew his wand. "No."

Lucius paused. He actually allowed Draco to limp closer, until the wandtip was pressed to the back of his head. His expression was mild.

Lucius shook his head sadly, saying, "_Nos perituri mortem salutamos._" (_We who are about to die salute death._)

Those clear blue eyes locked with Draco's, utterly fearless.

Lucius opened the door.

There was a blinding silent flash, and all sound disappeared.

In that last moment, as Draco fell backward, he saw a brilliant blue sky, stretching high above into infinity. Such vastness, after months of the dark captivity.

It was beautiful. It had been so long since he'd seen the sky.

He had forgotten.

Skirmishes continued in various corners of the Atrium as Death Eaters were found hiding among the bodies. The others had been captured and disarmed, their hands on the back of their heads as they were turned roughly and forced out of the prison. Some, who wore no uniforms, who were identified as members of Lucius' personal guard. Ron saw faces he recognised. But there was no sign of Lucius.

He slipped a little on detritus -- he preferred not to know quite what it was -- and wearily approached a tight knot of commanders to glean a little info. All right, to eavesdrop. He hoped to find out the outcome elsewhere, as well as find the rest of his team. No one could tell him where Xavier was.

They were muttering amongst themselves as a ventriloquist dummy that chattered away. "We can't get him," the disembodied voice said through the wooden face. "Malfoy has sealed off the entire executive floor. He's set fire to the all the Ministry records, too. With bottled dragon acid if you can believe it. That'll burn till it's gone."

Shit. A year's worth of his hard work. Ron shut his eyes in agony before he decided that, hell, it was all for the Death Eaters anyway. But he now knew what a job it was going to be to recreate everything.

"It's scorched earth up here, sir," the dummy continued. "A real fucking mess."

A man with extra gold bars and markings on his uniform looked grim. He was probably the high commander. He chewed the inside of his mouth. "Hmm. Without prisoners, Malfoy's lost his bargaining chip." He nodded, a quick decisive jerk of his head. "All right. Get the Alchemics. Blow the entire floor."

"No -- wait!" Ron shouted, diving for him, shoving people aside. He seized the man's shirt before he was grabbed by two of the men and hauled off the commander. He struggled and kicked in their arms. "You idiots! You can't do that!"

"Who is this?" the commander snarled. He turned to the dummy and continued, "We have a trapped rat. I don't want any more surprises."

"But _Draco's still up there!_"

Ron's voice was lost in the silence of awesome force of the explosion overhead that knocked him to the floor.

Next part: Stand In The Ruins

This was part four of the Beg Me For It universe. The other parts are located on my website, found in my author profile.


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